


Not that chained up little person still in love with you

by Meldanya



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Abuse, Domestic Violence, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 23:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meldanya/pseuds/Meldanya
Summary: During Murder in Montparnasse, Phryne can't sleep after her house has been burgled, as she faces the ghosts of the past.





	Not that chained up little person still in love with you

**Author's Note:**

> This a bit of a drabble dealing with Phryne's thoughts about facing Rene again. Warning -- it does get dark, so if it's not your cup of tea, please take a pass on it.

_“Mine. In body, mind, and soul. Ma chat noir”_

The bedclothes were in a sweaty tangle when she woke, still in the middle of the night. Phryne shivered and turned her pillow over, burying her face back in it. 

Perhaps she should have taken Mr. Butler up on his offer to telephone the police, but she had known nothing good would have come from having Jack Robinson at her house that night. She would have either sobbed on his shoulder, or dragged him to bed for company, and neither of those would have been helpful for their budding partnership. Not when he’d just acknowledged her as a fellow professional that very day. 

Although, it would have been nice to have another warm body here right now. If her instincts were right … and that had been _him_ here tonight. What was he doing here? She dragged herself out of bed and poured a drink, trying to ignore both the terrified feeling inside and the empty space on her wall.

 _Phryne Fisher. You are safe. You are safe and free._ Those words felt meaningless, with her bruised ribcage aching. René Dubois had hurt her yet again, a decade later and half a world apart.

It had all been so intoxicating at first. She had been so young. And so very very foolish. René had been brilliant and charming, and he had noticed _her_.

He had told her daily that he loved her, that she was his muse, his inspiration. How she, Phryne, would drive him to great art -- the type of art the world had never seen. 

Phryne snorted and poured herself another drink. He had needed someone young enough who would believe that _he_ would become a great artist. Him and his carrot soup paintings. At the time, she had lapped it up like the cat he called her. It had been exhilarating -- that intensity that she thought was passion at the time.

It had gone sideways so very quickly. The first time he raised his voice. The first time he scared her. The first time he hit her: she had laughed at another man’s joke at a party, and, when she saw René’s face, she knew she was in trouble. It was the first time he’d hurt her, but god knows it wasn’t the last. 

Phryne had tried so hard to keep him happy -- to keep being his muse that he _needed_ to be great. He blamed her every time a painting didn’t sell, every time someone mocked his attempts at Dadaism. She’d shrunk herself -- trying to fit into the little box he gave her. To be the small person he wanted her to be. 

“You little FOOL,” She slammed her glass down so hard it broke. “You stupid little fool.” 

It felt impossible to forgive herself -- to forgive herself for giving her mind so blindly to a man, and to a man like _him_.

It had been Pierre who helped break her free. He had shown her the finished painting, and as she had left, he handed her a bit of money (more money than he had), and said, “Ma chere, leave here. Leave here and forget all of this.”

She had caught the next train out of Paris, with only the clothes on her back and Pierre’s parting gift -- the painting of Veronique. 

Phryne had never seen René again, but she _knew_ it was him who had attacked her tonight. All the old feelings of terror had come rushing back the second he hit her. Did René murder Pierre because of her? Because he helped her escape?

Her ribs ached as she cleaned up the broken glass. She wasn’t that same scared girl he’d known a decade ago -- she would shrink and hide from no man. René Dubois did not know who he had challenged.

When Mr. Butler woke the next morning, he found his mistress calmly sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed, a book in one hand and her gun in the other. He said nothing, and poured her a cup of tea.


End file.
